


lyrical drabbles

by bonebo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Tags to be added, non-con, soft dom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:01:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>collection of prompts from Tumblr - chapters will be labeled</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Megatron/Rodimus -- The Killing Type

**_But I would kill to make you feel / I’d kill to move your face an inch  
I see you staring into space / I wanna stick my fist into your mouth  
And twist your Arctic heart_ **

\-----

He's always silent when they frag.

It's something Rodimus has come to notice, as of late—since they've started doing...whatever it is they're doing on a more routine basis. 

(He won't call it dating. Dating is full of intimacy and _feelings_ and other intense, icky things that he just doesn't have the capacity to manage right now. Not after the calamity that was Drift.)

But dating or—most often—not, Rodimus likes his partners to be vocal when it's time to bump uglies; if nothing else, because the noise is a cue he can easily read, and a sign that he's doing the right thing. Making someone happy with him, in probably the best—only—way he knows how.

But then again, it's just like Megatron to deny him that easy way out.

And it's not like Rodimus hasn't tried, either; he's worked Megatron over with his glossa until his jaw ached, straddled those broad hips and rode him until the berth threatened to break. He's tried every trick he can think of to get the old mech to make noise, to give Rodimus more than an occasional grunt or the groan of release; he wants something new, something personal, and every time he's been denied. It's irritating to the point of rage, enough to make him want to dent Megatron's face in—which he won't—and never frag him again—which he will.

If Megatron had a problem with speaking—if he was naturally a quiet mech—then Rodimus could _almost_ forgive it. But fact remains that Megatron is by no means shy about talking, and never has been; he recites poetry at Swerve's. His voice booms during addresses to the crew. His speeches of protest and battle cries were heard around the world.

When Megatron is passionate, when he _cares_ , he speaks loud enough so everyone can hear.

But he's always silent when they frag.


	2. Fortress Maximus -- King Rat

**_Oh, lucky lucky lucky lucky me again  
I said it looks like I've got to use my feet again  
Well I just spent my last one-hundred dollars  
God I'll pay my bill again_ **

\----

Some days he's sick of fighting.

Ever since he came online, it's all he's known—battling in a war, grappling with inmates, fighting for his life at the hands of a sadist. His entire existence has been plagued by death and struggle and battles, spattered with gore and sometimes it's nauseating, really, just _how much_ energon is on his hands, these hands built to enforce justice and protect lives—

He tries not to think about it, most of the time, because that's easier. When he _does_ think about it, well...people get hurt.

But some nights the shadows form faces on the walls, silhouettes of those he's known and watched die and killed; he offlines his optics and the shapes remain, branded into his mind, holding him hostage and denying him rest no matter how long he lays there and hopes.

(It's a small price to pay, he supposes, when you consider that the people in his mind are resting eternal.)

So on the nights when recharge is but a fantasy that the memories take away from him, he heaves himself out of his berth and goes back to his console, planning his next stop on his quest for justice. He takes the stiff joints and fatigue as penance, a punishment for all the lives he's taken, the sparks snuffed by these hands built to bring about peace.

And when he lands amid a firefight on some outer rim mudball planet, thousands of miles away from anything worth doing and anyone he cares about, he sets his jaw and goes back to work. After all, crime doesn't rest either; and if he can't bring back those he's killed, then he can at least try to ensure the safety of the living.

Pay back his debt, clean his ledger, one spark at a time.


	3. Pharma -- Celestia

**__**

**_When it's cold outside hold me, don't hold me. When I choose to rest my eyes coax me, don't coax me_ **

______

Pharma can't remember the last time he saw the sun.

Delphi sits in a place that, while often bitterly cold, is still beautiful—Pharma had never seen snow before he came to Messatine, and he can remember his first few months on the white planet being filled with wonder at it, a sort of playful curiosity that had made him feel young again. He used to devote part of his schedule to relaxation, and he'd spend hours flying close enough to the ground that he could feel the spray of the fine powder against the undersides of his wings, the fleeting chill of it melting against his fuselage.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now he spends every waking moment in terror, waiting for the door of his clinic to be busted down, for killing machines to come rolling in. Now he's so busy—since Tarn's last visit and the threat whispered in his audial, the voice squeezing his spark—that he always feels harried, always feels like the DJD are just a step behind, breathing down his neck. He hardly gets the chance to step into the solvent showers anymore, let alone go outside.

And he's tired, always tired—chasing recharge he'll never get, working late into the night and peeling himself out of his berth early the next morning, hurrying through his morning fuel because there are more miners coming in and he has to get to them first, before First Aid or Ambulon show up and ruin them for harvest.

He used to hate that he thought of them that way—these mechs that are supposed to be his patients, living beings now reduced to nothing more than nameless carriers of something far more important than sentience. 

Now he's too numbed by the horrors his hands have wrought to care.


	4. Black Shadow/Blue Bacchus -- Panem

**Panem: “Are you here to finish me off, sweetheart?”**

__

It almost pains him to see Black Shadow like this—slumped up against the cell wall, hands bound behind his back and frame telling of the ire of the Decepticon army, now that they know, too, of his betrayal. His wings are almost torn clean from their mounts, one optic is cracked and dark, pristine paint spattered with energon from the wounds pounded into him; Shadow looks a disaster, and had the situation been different, Blue Bacchus would've been on the warpath and looking for revenge.

But right now, he isn't angry. He just feels hollow.

Bacchus shuffles his rotors uncomfortably—because this situation will never be comfortable, never be anything other than an oddity—Shadow should never look so defeated, Blue should never stand over him so imposing—and that seems to finally draw Black Shadow's attention. Dimmed red optics flick up to him, hold his gaze; and the smile that draws across his face makes Shadow look gaunt. 

“Blue Bacchus.” Shadow's voice glitches, cracks and pops. Blue works hard to hide his grimace. “Are you here to finish me off, sweetspark?”

Blue takes a steadying breath, drops his gaze—he can't bear to see Shadow in this state of disarray, deserved or not. It makes his plating crawl. “Of course not. It'd be a mercy, I think—from what I hear, they're not done with you yet—but the guards wouldn't let me hurt you.” He pauses, then adds as an afterthought, “And even if they did let me, I wouldn't kill you. After what you did, everyone you betrayed...you don't deserve the easy way out.”

He meets Shadow's gaze again, then, his own optics bleak where Shadow's are resentful, and sighs softly. His spark aches in his chest with the thought of everything that could've been—all the potential they had, now gone. “No, Shadow, I didn't come to kill you. I came to say goodbye.”

He turns away before Shadow can reply; he doesn't know if he'll be able to handle whatever his partner—former partner—might say. As he walks away, he expects to hear Shadow call for him; to say something, to call for mercy, beg for Blue's return.

But silence reigns in the hall. Blue Bacchus does not look back.


	5. Tarnma--Can I open my eyes yet?

Pharma did not—would not, _could_ not—trust Tarn.

Their relationship was one built on half-truths and empty promises, crafted in the dark with Tarn's brute force speaking louder than Pharma's resigned silence ever could; they were nothing if not dysfunctional, the relationship as broken as those who made it up, and most of the time Pharma could work with that. He knows it's not ideal but it's routine, learned; a pattern that he can read and adjust to. 

Until it changes.

A huge hand wraps snugly around Pharma's optics, blinding him; he fidgets nervously on Tarn's berth, listens to the tank hum in his audial, “Keep them off, pet.”

Pharma bites down on his lip and obeys, keeping himself in the dark, wings shuffling uncomfortably as he feels Tarn's hand slide away, listens to the tank's huffing vents get distant as he moves. He knows he makes a helpless picture—hates how _weak_ Tarn makes him feel—but he still can't help the rush of heat that flushes up his lines as Tarn purrs, “Submission always looks so _pretty_ on you, Pharma.”

It's almost praise, and Pharma's spark aches to bask in it; but his pride makes his lip curl, has him sneering, “Can I online my optics yet? At this rate you're going to bore me to death.”

Tarn's response is a growling chuckle, and Pharma's wings quiver, caught between relief and indignation. 

“No, my dear doctor.” Pharma flinches at the sudden closeness of Tarn's voice, the way those broad fingers ghost lightly across his chestplates, hovering over his sparkchamber. “I think an exercise in trust would be _good_ for you.”

Pharma just barely manages to catch the contempt before it bleeds out into his field, threatens to bring him punishment. With Tarn there is no _exercise of trust_ —only a display of dominance.


	6. Quarkstorm--Open your mouth, love

“Open your mouth for me, love.”

Quark's voice is soft in the quiet of their berthroom, and Brainstorm shivers at it, wings trembling in his excitement; Quark had wanted him down on his knees today, black cloth tied snugly around his helm, keeping him blind and receptive. He parts his jaws without hesitation, glossa laid flat in his mouth, body open and willing for whatever Quark desires to grace him with.

“Good boy.” Something hard and crystallized presses against his lips, and Brainstorm opens his mouth a little wider to let the energon treat in, eagerly anticipating the taste. _“Wait,”_ comes Quark's soft chide, and Brainstorm obeys with a whine, going as still as he can with the precious sweet held just out of reach of his glossa. 

Quark's vents huff in a faint chuckle—he loves seeing Brainstorm this way, so cute and pliable, that brilliant processor focusing only on _him_ —and after just a moment he pets his fingers down Brainstorm's helm vents lightly, murmuring, “Go ahead.”

Brainstorm bites down gently, mindful of Quark's fingers, and all but moans as the candy breaks against the sharp points of his dentae, thick, syrupy sweetness flooding over his glossa in a rush. He savors the rich flavor of the treat and the pressure of Quark's fingers against his lips for as long as he can, loathe to let the moment end; but then Quark's fingers start to pull away, and Brainstorm blindly chases after them, planting soft, sucking kisses over Quark's fingertips and laving away any of the sweet residue he can find.

Quark watches with a shy smile, equally proud and bashful at Brainstorm's display of devotion. He reaches out to pull the blindfold free, eager to get the rest of the night moving, and see just how far Brainstorm's dedication could go.


	7. domestic!AU - "You're supposed to talk me out of this."

The berth room is quiet and dim, a relaxed scene; completely opposite of how Tesarus feels.

He's caught between eagerness and trepidation, looking between the whimpering pet at his feet to the hulking figure of Tarn leaning against the wall across the room; he's heard from the other members of the DJD about Tarn's...unusual rewards system, but he never thought he'd actually get a chance to participate, what with his size. 

He was sure his spike was more than enough to split their pet in two.

He crosses his arms with a huff, using one toeplate to roll the pet onto its side and nudge at the slick mess of its valve, already gaping and well-used by Tarn and Kaon both. “You're supposed to talk me out of this.” His optics catch the gleam of transfluid smearing across the inner valve lips, silver contrasting beautifully with the dark blue, and he feels a strong, sudden urge to paint the rest of their pet in that same silver.

Tarn shrugs, optics bright beneath his mask, field carefully reined in but still radiating his interest in the situation. “Why should I?” he asks, voice controlled and clinical; his optics drift down, watch the way Tesarus's toeplate parts and stretches the puffy outer lips of the pet's valve. His own engine gives a quiet rumble of desire. “If he breaks, take him to Nickel. No harm done.”

Tesarus pauses, mulling over the words; it's as close to permission as he's going to get, he supposes. He grabs the pet by the arms—lifts him as if he's nothing, because in this place, he is—and settles him in his lap, pulls his thighs wide.

The pet cries—Tesarus doesn't care. He lets his panel slip aside, and he indulges.


	8. Tarnma--"Shh, don't cry. It'll all be over soon. Now keep counting."

Tarn loved aerials.

More specifically, Tarn loved their _wings_ —and if he was honest, he only loved their wings insofar as he loved to pick them apart, bare each delicate sensor and sensitive piece of machinery and strip them to nothing, render down the beloved appendages to nothing more than dead, useless metal. He held no fondness for working wings—nor the haughty pride of aerials who owned them—but breaking them apart was an activity he enjoyed indulging in as often as he could.

The noises are just an added bonus.

Pharma chokes on a cry as Tarn rains down another strike of the electrowhip across the vulnerable panel of his wing—tied in bondage as he is, Pharma has no way to defend himself, but Tarn finds the way he tries to contain his noises almost endearing. 

Even if it does go against the rules he's been given.

“Pharma...” Tarn lowers the whip and gently touches over the bleeding wounds lashed into white plating, smiling at the way the aerial hitches and gasps. “...my _dear_ Pharma. You're supposed to be counting.”

“T-Tarn—“ Pharma's voice leaves him laced with static, cracking painfully; absolutely _pathetic._ It makes Tarn's engine purr. “Please— _please_ —I'm s-sorry...”

“Pharma, Pharma.... _Pharma._ ” Tarn tuts, shaking his head and taking a step closer, looming over the aerial's shoulder; he notices the gleam of tears on Pharma's faceplates and his grin splits wide. He reaches out to touch them, gently dragging his fingertips through the shine of teartracks and whispering against Pharma's audial, “Shh, don't _cry_. It'll all be over soon.”

He pulls back again, raises the whip—gives it a testing crack just to watch Pharma shudder. “Now keep counting.”

The whip strikes plating and Pharma screams, voice lost to sobbing, and Tarn is reminded yet again of why he loves aerials.


	9. Brainstorm/Quark - "Questions of science/Science and progress/Could not speak as loud as my heart"

There's a certain comfort to be had in the knowledge of parallel universes—in the assurance that even if he has failed in his goals in this lifetime, there is some version of him, somewhere, that has everything he's ever wanted.

In some universe, far beyond these dying stars, Brainstorm saved his conjunx from a death of fire; and he can hold Quark's face and kiss his lips and whisper assurances against his neck that _Yes, this is real, no, you're never going back again._ He can soothe Quark's nightmares of small cells and loud music, and kiss away his tears when the memories are too much, cradle that dear spark against his own and swear to bring down the heavens and raise Hell before he lets Quark be taken from him again.

In others, he's too late. In some, he never tries—in one dark universe he's Genitus again, stripped of everything but his name and his caste, forced to be a slave in a world where the war for equality was lost.

But in at least one universe, he's nonexistent. Cybertron's cities bustle with so many additional lives, so many bots not lost to a war that lost its meaning—and no one knows to grieve the loss of the war-born, the MTOs never created.

Those are the better universes, he knows; the ones where the war never happened, or where he was quick enough to prevent it. The science of Cybertron tells him they're better and morality agrees, but Brainstorm has never let something so fickle determine the desires of his spark.

Yes, there is a comfort to be had in knowing of parallel universes—in the confidence that somewhere beyond he accomplished his goals, made his dreams a reality.

But he will not rest until that universe is this universe, and he can see Quark's face again, and know that he's succeeded.


	10. "Beg me for it" -- Tarnma

Pharma thought he knew cruelty.

Pharma thought he knew pain, when Tarn strung him up and tore his wings from their mounts two months ago; he thought he knew pain, when his cockpit was smashed open and an electroprod was jammed inside, fritzing his core with live current until his optics cracked.

He realizes, now, that that was just a taste.

“ _Beg_ me for it.” Tarn’s voice is as calm as ever as he paces around Pharma, optics dark and gleaming; he sounds nonchalant and conversational, like he doesn’t have an Autobot jet lying on the floor of his ship with his limbs sawed off at the root, like Pharma isn’t outright weeping as his body, his ragged stumps, quiver with emotion. “ _Pharma._ Do you want your legs back or not?”

He sounds impatient now, and it only makes Pharma’s spark whirl faster in his chest, panic whipping him into a frenzy as he chokes out a garbled, “Y-yes, _Tarn_ , Tarn please--I-I’m _sorry_ , I’m sorry, _please....!”_

Tarn smiles behind his mask, listening to his jet’s desperate cries, the wet, gasping sound of his vents heaving for air; he’s struck again by how _pretty_ Pharma is, when humbled.

“I think you can do _better_ , Pharma.”

The wail that answers him is shrill and sparkbroken, loud enough to hurt his audials; but Tarn delights in it all the same.


End file.
